


Seventeen Drabbles

by Jaybee65



Category: La Femme Nikita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-03
Updated: 2005-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The LFN fandom ran a weekly drabble challenge several years back.  Here is a collection of my responses to those challenges.  Lots of characters (both major and minor) show up in a variety of settings.  Gen, het, slash...a little of everything.  [Please read note for warnings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen Drabbles

**Author's Note:**

> These range from serious to humorous to outright crack. Mostly gen with occasional references to possible het or slash. Some include very graphic violence. Also suggestions of possible rape and/or non-con. These are hard to categorize, which is why I have selected "choose not to warn." Caveat lector.

**Secondary Characters**

She leaned toward me so closely, I could smell the fragrance of her hair. So soft, so vulnerable, so trusting. So unlike me.

The enemy's warning cry came too late. In an instant, I tore through her throat. The skin was supple and yielding; it punctured easily, with an eruption of warm liquid that filled my mouth with its tang. Her blood. My blood. Pulsing in crimson streams to oblivion.

I looked up in triumph. The enemy stared, furious, deprived of her prize.

I was never much of a father. Until today. Rest in peace, my daughter: you're safe now.

**Downtime**

Slowly, George released the tweezers' grip, placing the stamp on the page with meticulous exactitude.

An 1860 Kingdom of Naples half tornese, in pristine condition. Quite a rarity. And so beautiful, its dark blue engraving illuminating a world lost forever.

Such fragile wisps of paper. Yet they outlived the governments that issued them. Politicians' speeches silenced, diplomats' maneuverings stilled, even spies' secrets forgotten: somehow, these flimsy creatures survived, mounted in albums and locked inside cabinets by sherry-sipping collectors.

He smiled. Nations rose and fell like cresting waves. Only the debris remained, strewn on history's shores, to be gathered and admired.

**Games**

He stalks along like a scarecrow on methamphetamines; you hear no words, just a gibbering stream of noises.

There is light. It sears your corneas, piercing the retinas. Then there is darkness, plunging you into an airtight tomb.

Light.

Dark.

Screaming.

Silence.

Repeat.

Until one day he turns his back on you, and you see the gun on his belt.

You spring; snatch; squeeze, the hatred of a thousand hells burning in your heart.

_Click._

As peals of childlike laughter shake his body, a woman chuckles over an intercom.

"God, Sparks, I can't believe she fell for that one."

**Freedom**

They embraced. Stiffly, but with the tenderness of those who once hadn't been strangers.

Leaning in, she whispered in his ear.

"You can't come back. I'm sorry."

She pulled away, withdrew a pistol, and fired twice. When the bullets tore into the soft plaster of the wall behind him, he understood.

It had to be this way.

Hurriedly, he sprawled on the floor, feigning death while she spoke to the stunned young operative outside. Then she left, and never looked back.

After nine years of waiting, all he had wanted was to go home. Instead, he was free.

And alone.

**2nd Person POV, Future Tense**

When they approach, blank-faced and silent, you'll feel your stomach curdle instinctively. With a snap of the latch, they'll open the briefcase, its polished metal gleaming like a mirror.

You'll blink. You'll swallow back the panic that swells like bile in your throat. As your bladder empties its hot liquid onto the chair beneath you, you'll close your eyes.

It won't hurt at first -- just the sting of a surgical stroke. But then the injections begin, and you'll convulse as if your internal organs might explode.

You'll scream. Then cry. Then whimper. Then beg.

And then you'll talk all night.

**Madeline**

When the bullet tore through his thigh, I felt a twinge of satisfaction flush my skin. He writhed, then struggled to maintain composure; I watched with a grim kind of pleasure, acid but sweet.

The bullet wasn't truly necessary. An alternate profile would have been equally plausible. A simple fall. An illness. A drug overdose. Anything that could have explained a sudden memory loss.

Shooting him was superfluous. Gratuitous. Perhaps even petty.

But I remembered the smug look on his face when he spoke, full of contempt and bravado.

"No thanks, I prefer younger."

He's lucky I didn't aim higher.

**Endings**

She liked flowers. Sometimes, when the sun was shining, the nice man would push her through the garden in the wheelchair.

She liked the colors. Reds, pinks, yellows, purples, greens. So cheerful. Once, when a bee alighted on the petals, she laughed and tried to catch it.

The flowers reminded her of something. Something out of reach. Something she once had, or once had wanted. When she thought about it too hard, it made her cry.

She shifted in bed and stared out the window. Smears of water blurred the glass. Rain again. She rolled over and closed her eyes.

**Escape**

Dori doesn't believe in heaven. But when she sees the empty rooftop, she rejoices like it's the threshold to paradise.

Beyond, the cityscape beckons. The sky is pale; the air cool, filled with the distant noises of freedom.

She breaks into a broad smile. She made it. She knew she would.

She takes a step forward -- and freezes, as the vista flickers. Blurs.

Then vanishes.

She stares at the encircling walls, senses deadening. She'd cry, if only she could breathe.

Dori doesn't believe in God. But when the door to the corridor begins to slide open, she prays anyway.

**Seeing the Invisible** [Originally published in the 'zine of the same name, under the title "Witness"]

Late at night, the dead watched Walter.

Frigid drafts of air assaulted his skin. Amorphous shadows lurked in peripheral vision. Disembodied footsteps circled the main floor, pausing as they passed the entrance to Munitions. In the silence, he felt lifeless eyes inspect him. Then the hollow echo resumed and moved away.

One night, the footsteps crossed the threshold and headed for his worktable.

"What do you want from me?" he screamed.

No one answered. The sound stopped and never entered Munitions again.

The answer came to him the next day. Knowing it, he lost his fear.

He was their witness.

**Nikita and Paul**

If only he had chains, he could clank them mournfully and groan. But the chains, alas, turned out to be a myth.

Instead, he had to resort to less amusing pastimes. Creating cold spots. Standing in her peripheral vision. Playing with the light switches and computer settings until she swore out loud.

She tried to ignore it. But he could see it got to her nonetheless. That's when he laughed in her ear, mocking her predicament as she wound up making the same choices he had.

"You thought you were so much better," he taunted. "How does it feel now?"

**Michael and Madeline**

She found him in his office. Lights off; desk empty; expression vacant.

A box of Simone's belongings sat in the corner. She could see he hadn't opened it.

"Go home," she said.

He nodded, but without enthusiasm. He made no move to get up.

She watched him in silence; he stared into nothingness.

"Over time, it gets easier," she offered.

At last, he raised his eyes to look at her.

"How do you know?" His voice rasped, almost a whisper.

_Because I lost someone, too_, she wanted to say. But couldn't.

She took a breath. "I don't. But I hope."

**Romantic Aspects of Walter or Birkoff**

[Note: this one was originally posted under the pseudonym "Notsuchalurker" instead of my usual JayBee because I --correctly, as it turned out! -- anticipated a bit of controversy]

I like that flustered look he gets when I'm around.

Those long eyelashes flutter like a shy little girl's. The tips of his ears flush pink. And a tiny sheen of sweat beads along his temples.

Is it jealousy? Is it fear? Yeah, but I also see lust, trying to hide behind those colored lenses.

I bet I could make him cry. I bet I could make him beg. I bet I could make that soft ass writhe until he finally bled.

I saunter by again, basking in his discomfort.

"Hiya Seymour." I lick my lips.

He stiffens. "Hi Greg."

**What is home?**

He despised being kept out late. Especially on business. He had sulked through the entire evening, glancing pointedly at his watch until his colleague finally got the hint.

Only a few blocks to his apartment. In the summer humidity, his shirt clung to his back; sweat itched at his temples. Still, he walked briskly, the anticipation tingling like a cool mist against his skin.

He would have bounded up the stairs, except that the neighbors had been complaining about noise lately. Inside, he took a long breath of contentment: she was waiting, trussed and gagged.

He reached for his scalpel.

**Fix Something That Bothered You**

He stared at the mirror, frowning in the cruel fluorescent light.

Every line in his face stood out in sharp relief; every gray hair on his head shone like a beacon. The silver strands almost glowed: their abundance a mark of decline, an invitation for a new generation to test his strength. To rise up and cast him aside.

He picked up the bottle of bleach from the countertop and ran his hand through his hair. In a few minutes, he would look bold. Vigorous. Unchallengeable.

Or would he?

He set the bottle down and shook his head.

Bad idea.

**Use One of the Four Elements**

It was the stench that caught his attention. It broke through his concentration like a steady tap on his shoulder, distracting and relentless.

Exasperated, he slammed the timer onto the worktable, rattling loosened springs and screws. Wrinkling his forehead, he sniffed the air cautiously. Then again.

Sour. Sharp. Raw.

He looked at the floor in dread. The water lapped around his boots, staining them dark at the ankles.

"Oh, crapola," he groaned. "Not again!"

Being underground wasn't always an advantage. Not when a hard spring rain sent torrents streaming through Paris' antiquated sewers.

He sighed. Time to find his wrench.

**Write About a Secondary Character -- #2** [OK, I was on crack when I wrote this one. Be warned.]

She approaches, brandishing the shiny-object-of-pain.

The one that severs and amputates. Reducing me. Diminishing me. Rendering me into captive obedience.

I was meant to soar in a forest, stretching my boughs in every direction to catch the dancing glint of sunrays, opening my roots to drink in the cool summer rain. Instead, I pose on this prison-shelf, stunted and contained. Never having braved a thunderstorm, never having swayed and rustled in the wind.

The glass rumbles open with the strength of an earthquake. My sap freezes. My leaves shiver. Even my roots tense in apprehension.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Helllllllp meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

**What If Nikita Had Never Come to Section?**

"Well, well, if it isn't Sugar, come to brighten my day!" exclaimed Walter, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

With a smirk on her lips and a flirtatious strut to her walk, Lynette strolled into Munitions. Reaching the worktable, she leaned across it and propped herself up by the elbows, taking care to flash just a hint of cleavage.

Tilting her head coyly, she smiled and twisted a strand of blonde hair through her fingers. "Oh, Walter, you'd call any pretty girl that, wouldn't you?"

He gasped and clapped his hand to his chest in an exaggerated show of offense. "Me? Never."


End file.
